


The Devil and The Detective

by johnsarmylady



Series: The Devil and Sherlock Holmes [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, violence and references to torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:41:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's first case after his return was one of the most horrific murders they had yet to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil and The Detective

It was a quiet morning by New Scotland Yard standards, and Greg Lestrade was enjoying a moment, drinking his coffee and reflecting on the events of the past four weeks.

As anticipated, Mycroft Holmes had engineered his brother’s return to the land of the living with perfect timing and with a synchronicity that the greatest of choreographers would have been happy to call their own, pulling the strings of the leading newspapers so that where they led the tabloids had to follow.  It was quite a circus, and for most part Greg had been able to sit in the background and watch Mycroft, Sherlock and John hold court at various times for the world’s media.

His own involvement had been in telling his team, some of whom had already heard part of the story from Sally Donovan and other members of the back-up unit.   A small smile graced his lips as he thought about the stick Sally had taken in the week or so after the Moran incident, suddenly she had discovered what it meant to be talked about, and sneered at behind her back – he wondered if she would think twice now about calling Sherlock ‘Freak’.

“Sir?”

Greg looked up to see the object of his musings looking at him with concern; it was obvious she had spoken to him more than once. He waved her in, indicating she should take a seat.

“What can I do for you Sally?”

“A body’s been found, Sir.” She paused, chewing her lip “Well, some of it.”

Sighing, the Detective Inspector closed the files that were on his desk and pushed aside his coffee cup.

“Okay, so what do we have?”

“Female. Torso and legs only, arms missing. Found by an off-duty fireman as he was driving home. Apparently he had a flat tyre on his car, pulled over to fix it, and found the victim under a bush.”

“No head?”

Sally double checked her notes.

“No head. Forensics are already on their way, do you want me to get a team together?”

Greg nodded. “Whose patch is it on? Have they been advised?”

“It’s on Barnes Common, Chiswick CID are already on scene.” Getting to her feet, she looked a little uncertainly at Lestrade. “Are we going to call in Sherlock?”

That was the last thing Greg had expected to hear her say, and he stared open mouthed for a few seconds before pulling himself together.

“Let’s have a look first, shall we?”

Nodding, she turned and walked over to her desk to grab her jacket and instruct a couple of Detective Constables to get their stuff together and get out to the crime scene, before heading towards the lifts with Lestrade.

xXx

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.” John ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Look, I’m not a bloody magician nor am I your personal court jester, yet you lay there and whine that you’re bored as if I should do something about it!”

“But John…” Eyes wide, Sherlock looked stunned. 

“No Sherlock, that’s enough.” He turned and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. “I’m going out.”

As the last echoes of the slamming of the door faded, Sherlock stood up and looked out of the window, watching as the doctor dodged across the road between the traffic, heading towards Regents Park.  He was still staring long after the blond head was lost from view.

“Have you two been arguing?”

Sherlock hadn’t heard their landlady come in, and now he turned to stare at her.

“Go after him.  He looked so unhappy when he walked out the door, surely you two can make it up?”

On the tip of his tongue was a biting, sarcastic retort, but he swallowed it back, choosing instead to turn his back on her.

Mrs Hudson glared at him for a few moments more, then mumbling about him losing a good man if he’s not careful, she deposited their mail on the table beside John’s chair and left.

‘ _Would I lose you?_ ’ he thought, staring at the park gates and biting his lower lip. Huffing uncertainly, he turned and reached for his coat and scarf, sweeping out of the door moments later and heading for the park.

xXx

 It wasn’t hard to find John, Sherlock knew he’d be drawn to the embankment of the Regent’s canal – it was just a matter of finding the right place. 

As soon as he saw the golden blond hair shining in the sunlight he stopped and just watched, noting how he sat on the grassy bank, his elbows resting on his knees and his head slightly bowed. Although he didn’t move, Sherlock was certain that John knew he was there.

Finally closing the gap between them Sherlock was surprised to see a small hedgehog standing between Johns feet, looking up at him and twitching its nose.

“Talking to animals now?” he asked in a soft voice, unwilling to disturb either creature as he crouched beside them.

John smiled, but didn’t look at him.

“We’re having a staring contest.”

“A what?”

This time John chuckled.

“We’re staring at each other – you know – a staring contest?  Whoever looks away first loses? Please tell me you played it as a child.”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John sighed.  Stretching his hand towards the prickly creature, he opened his fingers to reveal a little black beetle resting on his palm.  The hedgehog’s nose twitched a bit harder, and then he put his front paws onto John’s hand and snatched away the tasty morsel.

“You lose, Frank.” He said as the hedgehog turned away as if to hide the food from prying eyes. “You looked away first.”

“Frank?”

“Yeah well, it’s as good a name as any.” He stood, brushing the grass from the seat of his jeans and offering Sherlock a hand. The younger man accepted willingly.

“You cheated.”

“I never said anything to him about playing fair.” Nodding in the direction Sherlock had just come from, he asked “We going home?”

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather go?”

John turned to him and stared, frowning.

“No, I’m not going to ask you to entertain me – I’m simply asking if you would rather go somewhere else.”

“The words you’re looking for are ‘I’m sorry’” rolling his eyes he gave the dark haired detective a shove. “Git!”

Sherlock grinned.

“Forgiven?”

“Always.”

They almost made it back to 221B before they were interrupted by the sound of an incoming text.  Sherlock grabbed his phone from his pocket, grinning as he read the message.

“Aha!  Looks like the day’s not going to be a total disaster after all; come on John - we’re going to Barnes Common.”

“We are?” John looked resigned Sherlock flung up his hand to hail a cab. “Why?”

“They’ve found a body.”

xXx

Sally Donovan had seen a lot of things in her time in the Met, but no matter how many times it happened she could never get used to the evil things people did to each other – and this case was not going to be any different.

The body was naked and lay on its back, exposing to the horrified police and forensics officers an expanse of lacerated flesh. With one other officer it had taken Anderson close to an hour to process the area from the roadside to where the grass met the bare earth under the bush.  Now he worked cautiously around the body, taking photographs, careful not to contaminate the area.  Another forensic officer had processed the off duty fireman’s shoe prints for elimination purposes, while two more were cataloguing everything that had been picked up in the search,

Spreading out across the common, a contingent of police officers from Chiswick police station were working under the direction of Lestrade’s men, searching for the missing pieces of the victim.

Greg joined Sally at the cordon as a black taxi pulled up, and Sherlock and John stepped out as if there hadn’t been seven months, a faked suicide, a complete exoneration and a miraculous return since they had last done this.

“I texted you as soon as I saw what we had,” Lestrade explained as they ducked under the police tape.  Sherlock just nodded and strode towards the scene, taking a pair of latex gloves from Sally and pulling them on.

Anderson looked up as the consulting detective walked towards him, his eyes moving from him to Lestrade.

“Is this necessary?” he asked, a pained expression on his face.

“And hello to you too, Anderson.” Sherlock smirked at the forensics lead, daring him to say something more.

Seeing the potential for conflict, John stepped up and gave the younger man a gentle nudge.

“Crime scene. Observe. Deduce. Go.”

Greg coughed, muffling a laugh as Sherlock moved on.  John stood beside him, nodding a greeting to Anderson, his eyes then returning to the tall dark figure darting around the grass verge.

As he watched, Sherlock lifted his head and nodded towards the body.  John looked at the DI, who gave his wordless approval, then slowly crossed to where his flatmate was leaning down, examining the bloody and torn flesh through his magnifying glass.

“Take a look John.” Slipping his glass back into his pocket Sherlock stepped back to give the blond doctor room to work.

Pulling his own latex gloves on, John crouched beside the body. Only Sherlock was close enough to hear the sharp hiss of his breath as he took a close look at the injuries, and as his friend looked up at him he could read horror in his deep blue eyes.

With clinical detachment the doctor continued his examination, treating the deceased with respect as he gently probed the bruised and damaged flesh. Then, with a brief nod, he got to his feet and motioned for Lestrade to join them.  Anderson hovered close by as Sherlock made his deductions.

“She wasn’t killed here, she was dumped. Whoever left her took his time, wasn’t rushing to hide the body – you can tell by the fact that the victim was far enough under the shrubbery to be hidden from anything but the closest inspection.” He moved to indicate the deep wounds across the breasts and stomach. “These weren’t made by a regular blade…”

“Cat’s Paw”

“What?”

Two heads whipped round as both Sherlock and Greg turned to stare at the shorter man.

“It looks like the marks of a medieval implement of torture called the Cat’s Paw.”

Greg opened his mouth to ask more questions, but John waved him to silence.

“What else Sherlock?”

Sherlock seemed to give himself a mental shake, and then continued with his deductions.

“The flesh where her arms were removed has been torn rather than cleanly sliced, possibly indicating that the killer was angry, enraged, bent on inflicting damage – close to the time of death  I would say, given the lack of congealed blood around the remaining flesh and muscle.”

Then he drew Lestrade’s attention to the victim’s legs.

“There are marks around the ankle where she’s been restrained, and if you look there she has a metal chain wrapped around her thigh – so tight that it’s has cut into the flesh.” He paused as a thought suddenly occurred. “Oh! Yes…no, not a chain, a Cilice Belt.”

Lestrade and Anderson just frowned, but John nodded in agreement.

“It’s a barbed chain, the likes of Opus Dei utilise them for a thing they call mortification of the flesh, it’s an expression of faith, penitence and chastity.” John explained, pinching at the bridge of his nose as if to ease tension. “But it’s not supposed to break the skin; that has been pulled far too tight.”

“Anything else?” Greg asked on a sigh.

“No.”

“Actually,” John interrupted “I think there might be. Anderson, can I ask you to take a look at something for me?”

“What me?  You actually want my opinion?” Anderson didn’t know whether to take him seriously – by the sneer on Sherlock’s face maybe he shouldn’t – but the blond doctor was standing looking at him patiently.

“Anderson, whatever our personal differences, I at least believe you wouldn’t be in this job if you were totally useless.” He indicated that the forensics officer should look at the body.

“Thanks, I think.” The other man muttered as he crouched down. “What am I looking for?”

“Not looking – feeling.” John crouched beside him, and indicated the prominent hip bones. “Do those joints feel right to you?”

With surprisingly gentle hands Anderson manipulated the hip bones, feeling the movement despite the rigor mortis.  He looked at John, stunned.

“Dislocated?”

John nodded and stood up, drawing in a deep breath.

“I think there’s something more here.  Her hips are dislocated, as Anderson says the restraints on her ankles – maybe not so uncommon – but I truly hope I’m wrong about this.” He looked slowly round the three expectant faces. “You’re right Sherlock, about the killer wanting to inflict pain, and about the torn flesh, only I think, with that hip dislocation, we might be looking at someone who has built themselves a Rack.”

xXx

John melted into the background, just watching the work going on around him.  Sherlock was standing on the far side of the bushes, staring across the common, thinking.

When the body had been moved, the back proved to be less damaged than the front, although the marks spoke of a merciless whipping.  John had just shaken his head, but Sherlock could see the beginnings of a pattern – obviously whoever did this had tortured the victim first, but the whip marks looked older, so it would seem that this was a means to get information.  The rest was punishment, pure and simple of that he was sure, and judging by the expression on his face, John was too.

Several things were teasing at his mind; why remove the head and why not just dump the arms with the rest of the body?  And what information could possibly have warranted the punishment that was subsequently meted out?  And if John was right (and he had no reason to think he wasn’t) their murderer would need to have access to a large room, that was out of sight of prying eyes, in which to have built his rack.

The sound of a whistle far off in the distance interrupted his thoughts, and he looked across to where Lestrade and Donovan seemed to have frozen in place, waiting.  Sure enough, the crackle of a police radio sounded moments later, and the senior uniformed officer crossed quickly to speak to the officers from the Yard.

John moved quietly to stand next to Sherlock, his hand gently holding the consulting detective in place.

“Let them come to you, you know they will.”

The two men stood looking at each other, until the sound of a discrete cough caused them to turn together, their eyes meeting Sally’s wary gaze.

“They’ve found heads.” She said, only the slightest quiver in her voice.

“Heads? More than one?” Sherlock stepped right up into her personal space. “How many?”

“The DI wants you to come with us – we’re driving over to the other side of the common.” Sally stepped back slightly, then turned and walked towards the car. Trailing behind her, John and Sherlock slid into the back of the car as Greg started the engine.

“How many heads and where?” The consulting detective asked again.

Lestrade ignored him, his face grim.  In tense silence they drove around to where the common bordered on Barnes Green, the two areas of land separated by Beverley Brook.  As they slewed to a halt, one of Lestrade’s Detective Constables stepped up and leaned down to speak through the window.

“They were caught in the branches of a tree that had fallen into the brook, Sir.” DC Oliver looked over his shoulder as another car pulled up and Anderson jumped out with his bag and camera. “Forensics on site now.”

In the back of the car, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And when you’ve finished stating the obvious, maybe you can show us where these heads are?” he said, getting out and slamming the door.

John’s eyes met Greg’s in the rear view mirror, and with a shrug he got out and walked around to stand beside his friend.

At a signal from Anderson, Lestrade and Donovan moved forward, Sherlock and John following in their wake.  The sight that greeted them was one that none of those present were likely to forget in a hurry.  Even Anderson was looking a little shell-shocked.

Two heads, a man and a woman, facing each other, joined together by a large metal spike that had been driven through his skull and out through hers.

Donovan turned suddenly and lost her breakfast, bent double, hands on knees and retching until her stomach was finally empty.  She flinched as a hand gently touched her shoulder.

“Alright Sally?” John passed her a handful of wipes he’d grabbed from Anderson’s bag, watching as she blew her nose and wiped her mouth.

“Thanks.” She croaked, straightening up and stepping around the mess on the grass.

“Come on, back to the car.  No need to look again, Anderson’s captured it all in beautiful technicolor.”

Donovan looked at him, startled, expecting to read ridicule in his face, but John’s expression was one of distaste, mingled with sorrow.

When they reached the car he gave her one last assessing look, then advising her to stay put, he returned to the waterside where Sherlock was busy with his magnifying glass, assessing the gruesome find.

“Well,” he said, standing up and moving back. “They hadn’t been in the water more than ten or twelve hours, the fish haven’t really made any impact on the flesh and there is very little in the way of decomposition.  The female certainly appears to be the head from the body we have over on the common, an obvious step from there is to search for the body of a male and assume he will have been tortured in a similar way.”

“Any thoughts why?” Greg asked, unable to take his eyes from the grotesque sight of the impaled heads.

“By the way their faces have been nailed together I’d say they were lovers, from the estimated age of body I’d say that neither was married, so an illicit relationship against parent’s wishes – maybe one set, possibly both.”

“Montague and Capulet.” John murmured.

“Thank you John, romantic but pointless.”

John rolled his eyes and said nothing more.

“Anything else? Any ideas about the perpetrator?” asked Lestrade as he made notes.

“Most likely a man – if the injuries inflicted were done on a rack, a woman is unlikely to have the strength required to tear off limbs.” He paused, his eyes scanning the area. “And you need to keep searching – there will be another body out there somewhere.”

“What about her arms?” John asked quietly.  Sherlock turned to look down at him with a frown.

“Difficult one, John,” he replied. “There would be no logical reason to continue to turn the rack once the woman was dead, so it seems this was mutilation for pleasure.  Maybe he wanted to keep trophies?  Maybe she has a criminal record and her fingerprints will give her away?” 

“We’ll look into it – there may be DNA records.” Lestrade said, leading them back towards the car. “If we find the other body we’ll let you know.”

Sherlock nodded, striding off to find a cab.  John paused however, and looked at Sally Donovan who was still leaning against the bonnet of the car looking pale.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Better, thanks.”

Satisfied, John gave a brief wave to the officers and hurried to catch up with Sherlock.

xXx

Sprawled across the couch, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, Sherlock was a graceless mess of limbs.  As his exact opposite, John sat quietly alert in his armchair, his notebook balanced on his knee, writing down the thoughts that spewed forth from the other man’s cupids bow lips.

“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just type this straight onto your laptop?”

The question came out of the blue, and John paused, his pencil hovering over his notebook, his eyes darting to the figure on the couch.

“What? No!  Have you seen my typing speed?”

Long pale fingers waved in his direction.

“Can’t you…”

“Not magic, Sherlock.  Can play with senses, can displace air to stop you falling, but I can’t miraculously become a one hundred words a minute secretary.”

The consulting detective huffed and resumed his thinking position.  When no more thoughts were forthcoming, John put aside his notebook, picked up his laptop and opened up Google.

“What are you doing?”

“Something you said earlier, about instruments of torture not being everyday objects – I’m checking to see whether there are any in museums in London.”

Swinging his feet to the floor, Sherlock leaned forward.

“You don’t seriously think that this murder was committed in a museum?”

John glared at him.

“No, but then I don’t imagine he had the plans for it drawn up by the Home Design team at B&Q either.  He needed to see one for himself, and possibly even take photographs, so I’m starting with the two most likely places – the Clink and the Tower of London.”

 Leaping to his feet, Sherlock grabbed his jacket and Belstaff.

“Right…”

“Wait.” John hadn’t moved, his eyes still scanning the laptop screen. “Okay, scrub the Clink – they have everything but a Rack, however the Tower has a replica of one.”

Sherlock was out of the door before John had finished speaking, and the blond doctor had to run to catch up with him before he disappeared into a cab.

The traffic was heavy, and the journey infuriatingly slow, and tension and nervous energy building up in the younger man had him twitching and fidgeting in his seat. John reached across and put a steadying hand over the fingers that were drumming frantically against a suit-clad knee.

“Why don’t you make your brother earn his keep?” he suggested softly, smiling as his comment earned him an intrigued look. “Have you seen the time? The Tower of London will be closing soon, get him to arrange for us to be there after hours.”

The mobile was in his hands before John had finished speaking, and judging by the smirk that settled on his features he had goaded his brother into getting them exclusive access to the Rack.

The senior Yeoman Warder that greeted them as they alighted from their cab looked slightly puzzled when he saw Sherlock, but snapped to attention as John stepped from the vehicle.

“Captain Watson.” He saluted smartly. “And Mr Holmes, I have instructions from the Cabinet Office to take you straight to the Wakefield Tower.”

John returned the salute, avoiding looking at Sherlock for fear of giggling – Mycroft must have pulled out all the stops to get them VIP treatment. He heard the younger man’s huff of ill-concealed laughter as they followed the uniformed man over the dry moat and into the walled enclosure.

There were still quite a few tourists milling around, taking photographs and exclaiming over the beauty and history of the building.  For Sherlock and John it held memories of a more painful time, and as they moved towards the tower a cold calmness settle over them.

“I’ve asked the curator for this area to stay and help you in any way he can.” The Yeoman explained as he led them through the door.

“He doesn’t live on site then?” John asked.

“No, he is one of our civilian staff. Ah,” this last was said as a fair faired man in his late forties stepped from what appeared to be an underground chamber. “Jonathan, these are the gentlemen I was telling you about, Captain Watson, Mr Holmes, this is Jonathan Gale, curator of Wakefield Tower and our ‘torture’ specialist.”

The newcomer thrust his hand forward, enthusiastically shaking John’s hand, frowning slightly as Sherlock kept his hands firmly in his pockets.

“Good to meet you,” he said, smiling, “although that introduction’s not quite as it sounds!  I know the theory, and how these things work, but through study, not practice.”

“Of course.” Sherlock drawled, looking all around the cold stone entrance. “We would like to see the Rack now, if you please.” He pulled his mobile out of his pocket as he spoke, and rattled off a text.

Looking a little startled at Sherlock peremptory speech, the man led them through into a surprisingly airy room, where the Rack was displayed in full working order.

Skirting around the barriers, Sherlock pulled his magnifying glass from his pocket and set to examining in close detail the workings of the machine. 

John engaged the curator in discussion about the use of such things, and was immediately struck by the fact that this man hadn’t once thought to ask why they needed this information.  Sherlock must have felt this too, as his eyes met John’s, full of unspoken questions.

“So, could one man operate this effectively?”

Gale turned to face the younger man, his expression carefully blank.

“It has a ratchet system which means that a strong child could operate it, why do you ask?”

“Research.” John stepped in. “When we’re not working we research the more obscure things that might one day come in useful.”

“Oh, so you’re not on a case then?”

“Not currently, no.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled as he crouched down to look underneath the machine. “So how would this work then?  You put someone in it already at full stretch?”

“Well, yes.  And then you pull the lever – the set of the ratchet will determine how great each stretch.  The main body of the Rack can be adjusted for taller people,” he looked Sherlock up and down with a slight smile. “We’d probably have to add another yard and a half, maybe more, to get an effective stretch on you, whereas Captain Watson here would probably be fine.”

Sherlock smirked at the disgruntled look on his flatmate’s face, and then turned back to the curator.

“May I take photographs?”

“I’m sorry; we don’t allow members of the public…”

“I’m not a member of the public.” Sherlock snapped. “I’m here researching on behalf of the British Government.”

“You’ll find,” John murmured in the curator’s ear, “that he wasn’t actually asking permission – he was trying to be polite.”

xXx

Side by side they walked out onto Tower Hill, their business completed, but as soon as they were out of sight of the main gate Sherlock grabbed John and drew them both back into the shadow of a high wall.  Moments later Jonathan Gale drove out into the traffic, passing them without a second glance, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Without a word Sherlock withdrew his mobile and showed John the message he had received.

_‘Jonathan Peter Gale, born in Sherringham Norfolk, 22 nd September 1964. Studied at Leeds University, originally taking Theology and Religious Studies, but was found to have such radical views that he was advised of his unsuitability for that course.  Subsequently studied History, writing his thesis on Crimes and Punishment in Tudor England._

_Separated from his wife, has a daughter of 18 who lives with her mother.  Has held the position of curator at Wakefield Tower for the past five years._

_Several brushes with the law as a youth, culminating in a caution for threatening behaviour against a former girlfriend and her new partner in his early twenties, since then has kept himself on the right side of the law.’_

John looked up from the screen.

“Or he’s kept himself out of sight of the law.”

“My thoughts exactly.  There was something about his that didn’t ring true, something in his lack of curiosity about what we were doing, as if…”

“As if by not asking questions he can’t accidentally let information slip?”

“Yes!” Sherlock snapped his fingers. “That’s exactly it.” He took back his phone and sent a text to Lestrade, then flung up his hand to hail a cab.

“What now then?” John asked, climbing in behind his friend.

“We visit him at home.” Sherlock gave the address to the cab driver and sat back, watching the world flash by the window.  The feeling that he was being stared at made him turn to face the man sitting next to him.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Not if you’ve let Lestrade in on your plan.  If he has murdered two people, at least one by torture, and nailed both heads together, then this isn’t a man to be underestimated, Sherlock.”

“I’ve told him where we’ll be.” Came the somewhat cautious reply.

John shook his head and laughed softly.

“You don’t plan to wait for him though, do you?”

“No need John – I’ve got a guardian angel on my side.” Sherlock’s grin was irresistible, and John leant across briefly and stole a quick kiss.

“You are totally mad, d’you know that?” he chuckled, resting back against the seat, half turned so he could look at his lover. “Just don’t get too cocky Sherlock; we are neither of us invincible.”

The younger man looked at him in surprise.

“Don’t go thinking it’s impossible to kill me – it’s really not as hard as you might think.”

The surprise became a frown as Sherlock realised John hadn’t spoken aloud, but had placed the words like a thought in his mind.  A flick of the warm blue eyes in the direction of the driver explained his caution, but the frown remained as he stared at his companion.

“Don’t worry about it.” This was said aloud, with warmth and affection. “I just don’t want you to get carried away – take reasonable precautions.”

Sherlock nodded, looked out of the window, and then leaned forward to speak to the driver.

“Just here will do.” He pulled his wallet out and thrust the fare through the driver’s open window as he climbed out, then waited at the curb side until the cab had pulled away.

“Where now?” John fell into step beside his friend.

“That house there.” Sherlock pointed out a large Victorian terraced house, two storeys high, but with a basement with an external door that could be accessed by a set of old stone steps.

“And you’re just going to walk up to the door and knock?”

“I think so, don’t you?  He’ll hardly expect us this soon after going to the Tower.”

“After you then.” John stood to one side and let Sherlock mount the steps to the front door.

Gale took his time answering the door, and looked stunned when he saw who his visitors were.

“Was there something you forgot to ask gentlemen?” he asked, standing in the doorway.

Sherlock stepped forward, pushing his way into the dark hallway, causing the fair haired curator to stumble backwards. John followed them in and closed the door.

“We forgot to ask you about the rack that you built for yourself. Where do you keep it?”

“Rack?  What….? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Really?” Sherlock’s eyebrows were almost lost in his hairline. “Then you won’t mind if we have a look around.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I don’t need one, because you have invited me in.” Blatantly ignoring the fact that he had pushed his way in, the young detective swept through the house, poking his head into every room, running upstairs and repeating the exercise there.

John meanwhile was leaning against the front door, his eyes never leaving the nervously pacing curator.

“See – there’s no rack here.” Gale exclaimed as Sherlock descended the stairs once more.

“What about the basement, Mr Gale?” Asked John quietly, pushing his shoulders off the door and moving towards the basement entrance, gently pushing Gale ahead of him. 

Gale opened the solid door, and immediately the metallic tang of blood assailed his visitor’s noses.  They reeled slightly at the strength of the smell, and taking advantage of their momentary discomfort the curator stepped through the door and tried to close it behind him.

John recovered first, blocking the door and pushing through with his shoulder.  Gale fled down the stairs, with John and Sherlock hot on his heels.  As the three men burst into the main body of the cellar the stench of blood and decomposing flesh was almost overwhelming.

“No you don’t!” John launched himself at the fleeing man, knocking him to the floor and landing on top of him.

With a strength born of fear Gale threw John off and climbed to his feet, backing up against a work bench, his hands seeking a weapon while his eyes stayed on the two men approaching him.

“Who was she, the woman that you tore apart?” Sherlock demanded. “What did you do with her arms?” He moved forward slowly,

“What in God’s name did she do to you that you had to nail her head to…to whom?  Her boyfriend?” John was moving too, forcing Gale to turn his head.

Making use of the distraction, Sherlock leapt forward but Gale was ready for him and backhanded him, knocking him sideways.  With his left hand he grabbed hold of a sharp bladed instrument from the bench, twisting and swinging it round towards the consulting detective’s head.

Again John threw himself at the desperate man, realising too late that he had put himself in the path of the swinging weapon. With a scream of agony he felt the blades of the home-made Cat’s Paw bury itself into his upper arm, and he brought his other hand up to break Gale’s hold and prevent him from tearing through muscle and tissue.

Horrified, Sherlock caught John as he fell.

“Shit! Fuck!” John swore, clutching his arm. “Don’t let him get away Sherlock – go!”

Torn, Sherlock gazed at the retreating form of the curator as he ran up the stairs, then glanced back at John, at the blood soaking through his jacket.

“Now Sherlock.” Through gritted teeth the blond doctor almost snarled at his friend, and laying him down gently the younger man obeyed.

Tearing out of the front door, Gale ran straight into the arms of Sally Donovan.

“I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Sir.” She said, slamming him against the police car, and slapping handcuffs on him.

Seconds later Sherlock came pounding through the door.

“Lestrade!”

“Yeah, we’ve got him.” Greg smiled.

“We need an ambulance – John’s been hurt.”

Greg stared at the young man.

“How bad?”

“Bad enough – get an ambulance.” He waited until the call had been made, the as he turned to go back inside added “Oh, and get Anderson, there’s more than enough evidence down in the cellar to convict your prisoner.”

xXx

Greg stood in the doorway of the living room at 221B and took in the sight before him.  John sat with his feet up on the couch, propped up on cushions, letting Sherlock feed him Mrs Hudson’s home-made vegetarian chilli and rice.

“I thought you were left handed John.” he said with a grin, walking over and sitting on the edge of the couch next to the doctor’s bare feet.

“I am.” John replied around a mouthful of Quorn and kidney beans, nodding in Sherlock’s direction. “He feels guilty that I got hurt.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose.

“I should have thought before I went for him.”

“Sherlock, stop it!” He turned his face away from the offered forkful of food. “I misjudged taking him down is all, nothing more than that, and subject to the result of the blood tests they took at the hospital the antibiotics and stitches will take care of this.” He shrugged his right shoulder carefully.

“Eat.” Sherlock glared. Rolling his eyes John opened his mouth.

“John,” Greg sounded curious. “What about the blood tests?  I mean…”

“Greg, they’ll never know…if we don’t tell them.”

“Did you find out why he did it?” Sherlock questioned the detective inspector.

“You were right.  His daughter had a boyfriend he didn’t approve of, and she refused to give him up – poor sods, they both paid the price for his narrow minded and radically religious views.  He wanted the girl to become a nun.” Greg shook his head sadly. “Bloody archaic.”

John looked sadly at his companions.

“Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever understand the human race”

 


End file.
